


London 2012

by Holladay Street (street)



Category: Make It or Break It
Genre: Episode: s02e10 At the Edge of the Worlds, F/M, Future Fic, post-ep, post-ep AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-10
Updated: 2010-09-10
Packaged: 2017-10-11 15:29:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/113908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/street/pseuds/Holladay%20Street
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cautions: Some swearing, implied relationship with large age difference (but not under-age).<br/>Disclaimer: I do not in any way own Make It or Break It - I just play on their gym mats.<br/>Setting: This story goes AU from Episode 2.10, and assumes that Sasha does not return to coaching pre-Olympics.</p><p>"He had discussed gymnastics with her for years. Had dissected moves, motivations, fears, but this directness was new and he felt he could do nothing but drift in her wake."</p>
            </blockquote>





	London 2012

~ June ~  
His new flat was full of light but also full of noise. The tube station across the street was a steady bustle, his neighbor's piano practice was slightly too frequent for his preference, and even the post clattered as his letter carrier slipped it through the door and onto the hallway floor.

The Rock - a shiny blue and red logo in the corner of the heavy cream envelope. He received the occasional newsletter by email, but had managed to bypass the cheery mailings that Kim probably still labored over. The ones that bragged about recent accomplishments and begged for financial donations in turn. It would have seemed crass he thought - not for the first time - to either brag or beg a former coach.

His address, half obscured by the forwarding label for his new flat, was hand written. Tossing the Tesco fliers into the bin he slipped his thumb under the flap of the envelope and ripped.

_Dear Sasha,_  
I was so glad when Payson told me you're planning to come watch next month. Security will be tight (it's a hassle already - believe me!), but this pass will get you into the competitor's area of the arena. See you next month!  
-Kim K. 

He examined the laminated pass and its 2012 lanyard, and closed his eyes with a smile.

 

~ July 29 ~  
Payson had finished three of her qualifying events before she noticed him - a shock of blond hair in the fifth row, near the vault springboard.

She was not surprised at his choice of seat - the competitors' focus on that apparatus was so narrow it rendered the audience nearly invisible. It was the perfect place for an observer who didn't wish to be observed. She was even less surprised, she realized, to see him watching. Nearly every mental rehearsal and recurring dream for the past six months had included the sight of his grin after she landed each dismount.

The timing was perfect. Her remaining event was floor - the balletic routine that she and Coach Popescu privately referred to as "Sasha's dance". The tumbling passes were fiercely energetic and reminiscent of her earlier style, and the linking dance sequences were lyrical. She still used music by Tchaikovsky.

Taking a seat next to Kaylee she bent to adjust her bandaged ankle beneath the warm up clothes, careful to appear composed.

"Sasha's here. Had you noticed?" She kept her voice modulated, leaning towards Kaylee as she stretched her shoulders. If there was anything they had learned at Worlds, it was that microphones were almost everywhere and always on.

"Sasha? Yeah." Kaylee jiggled her knee nervously. "I was going to point him out to you afterwards. Don't get distracted, now." she dimpled at Payson, a little mischief sneaking through the focus. Payson smiled back. It was good to see the genuine Kaylee coming through even under the day's pressure. Over the course of the last three years it was as if they had switched places - Kaylee whittling her happy enjoyment for gymnastics down into stark professional brilliance, and Payson exchanging her powerful determination for a deeply personal love for the sport. The final realization of how complete the switch was had shocked them both to laughter. Adjacent pages in last month's Seventeen magazine showed Kaylee mid-air above the bars, dressed in a dark lycra jacket and trousers and her endorsement-brand of running shoes. Her hair was slicked against her skull, her mouth a fierce line, and her body a perfect bowed arc. The text along side her was a brave slash of color proclaiming freedom, strength, determination. Opposite, Payson's pose was also a jump, but with no apparatus in sight she appeared to float. Her feet were bare, arms flung above her head and hands relaxed, hair a free-floating halo of curls framing a brilliant smile. The advertising copy (what had it been for, anyways - Deodorant? Perfume? Dance clothes?) literally called her a "poster girl for joy". Her family had teased her relentlessly about that wording, but Payson hadn't minded; there was something startlingly true about the ad. She kept a copy of it, torn from the magazine, and Kaylee's as well; a snapshot of them both, poised.

And it was nearly time. Calm, as she had been ever since landing in London, Payson eased off her warmup clothes and climbed the stairs to the event platform. She no longer ran her routines in her head while she approoached the floor. Her body carried her now - each sequence etched into her muscles through by repetition, leaving her mind free to interpret and experience the whole routine. She spared a quick glance toward the bleachers behind the vault before stepping onto the tumbling floor. He was still there, and turned toward her. After one glimps she turned away. She would allow herself a solute precisely in his direction, but right now she knew that for him, for both of them, it was about the routine.

Her coach was there, laying a hand on Payson's back and giving a brief nod while they waited for the judges' signal. After a year and a half of daily communication the tiny woman spoke in glances more often then words, and by now that was all that Payson needed. Papa Beloff (the title "coach" had never stuck) directed the Rock now. He had invited Maria Popescu to Boulder work with Payson when it became clear that the pushy, cheerful support that was imparting more focus and confidence to the other gymnasts was making the disciplined Payson feel frustrated and claustrophobic. A muttered "just like your old coach used to be" and two days later and a slight, determined-looking woman strolled through the front doors. Coach Popescu still carried the same physical poise as the lithe teenager caught in grainy footage from a time when the Eastern European gymnasts had shone their brightest. Her methods came from another time and place as well. Payson was half in another world now. A world of daily ballet classes, stretching regimes that lasted longer than apparatus practices, and expectations of technique and emotional artistry that made Payson shine so bright she sometimes felt as if her skin was glowing in an effort to contain it. The last three years had changed her body and her sense of self, but it had also honed her mind. Watching the range of ages competing in the trials was noticing for the first time a distinct separation between gymnasts who seemed somehow girls, and those who were unquestionably women. Age, skill, and build mattered little. In retrospect, Emily's accelerating skill had echoed her more mature identity. Payson knew without a doubt which camp she and Emily were in.

And now it was time. Maria Popescu raised an eyebrow and Payson rotated her ankle once, took a deep breath, and nodded in return. She felt the world beyond the mats fuzz away as the slick flooring of the out-of-bounds area transitioned to the reassuringly rough texture of the mats beneath her feet. She stepped to the center and saluted the judges (even that had changed - now a graceful reach rather than an enthusastic backbend) before sinking to one knee in her opening pose. As her music washed over her she rose off the mat, reaching toward the lights high above her and pausing at the hight of her extension, enjoying a half-second of bated breath before drawing her muscles in to leap.

 

~ July 30 ~  
Stepping out into the weak summer sunshine Payson drew a long breath. The change in elevation made her feel her powerful and energized. Here at sea level she felt like she could breath forever. Even the stress fracture near her ankle hadn't been particularly painful since she arrived - something to do with blood's super-oxygenation according to one of Papa Beloff's informative rambles. He had been terse this morning. Not with Payson, who was exactly where she had hoped to be with spots in the floor and bars event finals and in the individual all around, but Emily had qualified for the vault and beam events rather than vault and floor, and another teammate had injured her knee and was possibly down to being a bars specialist rather than an all around competitor as they had hoped. The morning's meeting over breakfast had been tense. When they met in the practice gym at noon for their training session before tomorrow's team competition the stress would doubtless be even higher.

Releasing another long breath, Payson slipped her phone out of her pocket.

_Very sneaky by vault. U free this AM? -Payson_

_Yes great, if youre not in practice. Also, sim card. Congrats._

_Free til 12. New phone since Worlds. 9:30 by village main gate ok?_

_See U there._

"Are the showers always designed as if the building will be torn down next week?" she asked, falling into step beside him and squinting up against the rays of the sun.

"Payson! I was hoping you'd be focussing so hard you wouldn't notice your old coach."

"Mm, yes I could tell." The deadpan felt easy - she had expected more awkwardness than this.

"I didn't want to distract you. You certainly didn't look distracted - but now that I know you were just busy critiquing the best of Briton's new architecture, it all comes clear."

"No, I noticed you before floor. It helped." She smiled a little, cautiously. Sasha had advised her by phone and email since leaving the Rock, long conversations sorting through dismount options, injury treatments, and competitors. But she hadn't seen him in person since Colorado and she didn't trust herself to read his body language. " . . . Really though, it never occurred to me that you wouldn't be here."

She had been hesitant to confess this, but Sasha simply smiled at her and held out his arms. She stepped into the hug, smelling the same scents of black tea and ginger marmalade she remembered from early practices at the Rock. She sighed a little, gripping into his back with her fingers as the familiarity washed over her.

"Quite different muscle mass in your shoulders now." he commented when they broke apart, giving her an encouraging smile.  
"Yeah. Coach Popescu has me using more momentum on bars and vault. It changed pretty fast actually." Payson smiled fully, familiar now and content to let her emotions read on her face.

"I thought so after the VISA cup. It's great for your lines on the floor. You look great, Payson. You looked great out there yesterday, and . . . It's good to see you."

"Oh, it's nothing you didn't know about already. What are you doing right now? Do you have time to go to a coffee shop or something? It's . . . Seeing you in person is kinda strange. Can we get used to it a bit?"

"Sure. I'm here to watch you. You know that. We can take a stroll from here if your ankle's good for it. Do you need to check in with anybody?   
"No, I told Mom and coach I'm meeting with you. It's fine."

"Payson, you know that we all agreed I wouldn't work with you again before the Olympics."

"Sasha." She glanced up quickly, determined to catch his eye. "This isn't work."

They strolled along a canal (something a plaque about historic urban waterways). They stopped in at a cafe for drinks, Sasha taking a breath to remind Payson to check the ingredients on her juice but finding her already reading the label. "It's ok." She smiled up at him. "We researched brands and everything before the trip. Nothing in here to make my bloodwork wonky." She grinned again as she fished for coins in her pocket. She was more contained then she had been two years ago, and more intentionally expressive - the volatility of sixteen replaced with confident openness.

She tucked her hand into his arm as they left the cafe. He nearly faltered, but the memory of Maria Popescue's strong hands guiding Payson's movements in warm-up made him relax. She was running on a different standard now. Touch was a form of trust - it didn't need to mean anything more.

"I missed you" she said, pausing to lean her elbows on the high wall of the canal. He knew this - they had both said this in email, frustrated that an issue on bars couldn't be worked out in person, or that some moment of fear or questioning had passed without easy access to their link of counsel.

He watched a boater step ashore from the nose of a narrowboat to work the lock mechanism upstream. Setting his tea on the top of the wall he laid his hand over hers. "I know. I missed you too." he said, and felt her head settle against his shoulder.

There should be more words, she thought. But really, their connection by words had never faltered, She was content now to simply soak him in, breath in his scent and feel the shift of muscles against her cheek through his shirt as he leaned into her slightly.

"Do you want to talk about the prelims?" he asked, as they watched the lock gates open. One boater was at the stern of the boat now sorting ropes, the other was still by the fly wheel on the shore.

"Not really. It's here, now. I'm not preparing any more, I'm just . . . in it. You know?"

She turned her face up toward him, a softly defined oval in the dappled light reflecting off the water.

"You're ready, Payson." he smiled at her and she closed her eyes, nodding. He bent toward her a little, wanting to surround her with reassurance that he needed to offer much more than she seemed to need to receive. He felt her go up on tip-toe. He drew a sharp breath. How had they ended up back here so quickly?

"Payson?" he asked, drawing back slightly. She turned to lean her back lightly against the wall, balanced on demi-point to look up squarely at his face. "I missed you." she said again, drawing herself up towards his tense body until her cheek was resting against his.

He let out a breath, leaning into her slightly and allowing himself to cradle the back of her head in his hand, finger nails catching on her loose hair. The canal boat eased into the lock as he watched, the gate swinging shut quietly behind it as the water began to rise. He felt Payson sigh against his ear, felt her lean against him slightly so a few points on their bodies touched - her strongly muscled thighs against his legs, one shoulder tilted forward to rest against his chest, and a hand still gripping his arm. He turned to nestle his forehead into her soft hair, finally so close to this person who had somehow become the through-line of his life over the past two years of gypsy moving, odd jobs, a relocation back to Europe, and entirely too much time loafing in cafes and athletic clubs with no personal goal larger than an interesting conversation or a good pick-up game on the rugby field. Sasha Beloff hadn't exactly been biding his time, but as he held Payson and listened to them breathe together hhe felt something in the pace of his life click back into tempo.

She pulled away finally, pausing and then giving a broad smile, so worldly he felt slightly startled. "I should stretch for practice soon. Let's watch the boat go through and then will you walk me back?"

"Of course." he said, at a loss for anything decisive in the face of her ease and openness. He had discussed gymnastics with her for years. Had dissected moves, motivations, fears, but this directness was new and he felt he could do nothing but drift in her wake.

The upper door of the lock clanked and ground, not as smooth as the first set had been. Once the couple on the boat polled themselves through one hopped off to close the gate. Bending to operate the gate wheel she didn't notice her companion throw a loop of mooring rope around a bollard and step ashore behind her, until they were next to each other at the wheel, caught up into a playful kiss with hands tangled in each other's hair, a laugh drifting up towards Payson and Sasha resting against the wall with their fingers entwined.

~ July 31 ~  
"I can't have a safety net for this" she said, eyes dark, and she pressed something into his palm. "It's all me now."  
The smell of floor polish and sweat in the hallway beneath the bleacher seating could have made this a thousand arenas over the last fifteen years. But the feel of the heavy medal and grosgrain ribbon in his hand made this only Sydney in 2000 or now, London, in 2012. She smiled slightly once she saw the recognition bloom in his eyes, stretched onto tip-toe - all sleek muscle and sinew in her red and navy leotard - and kissed his cheek. He smiled back acceptance, wordless, as she turned away, jogging back down the corridor toward the competitor's area.

~ August 3 ~  
By dint of scheduling it was morning when they were next alone. He had seen her the night before, glowing with victory and slightly shaky (just fatigue, Kim had reassured him. The stress fracture that had plagued her at Worlds had given her no trouble, and she was eating and sleeping with the dedication of a professional. He smiled at the parental phrasing, relieved just the same).

Her triumphant beauty made him breathless, but it was her boldness that made him smile. He hadn't been particularly surprised when the doorbell of his flat rang at 6:30 the next morning and he found her jaunty and poised on the stoop, hair tumbling loose, team jacket wrapped lightly across her shoulders (heaven knows how she'd avoided the paparazzi). He was surprised though when her first action upon stepping into the hall was to press him back against the wall, lips warm against his as her gold medal rested cool and heavy between them.

Epilogue  
~ 2014 ~  
He tossed her an energy bar as she strolled across the gym. She grinned, tearing it open as she watched Gemma practice her jumps on the beam.

"Did you remember to empty the rubbish bin before you left this morning?" she asked, chewing with a slight frown as Gemma wobbled.

"Yes. And I updated your Oyster card for this month. How did you get out here from the studio?"

"Our assistant choreographer lives in Bethnal Green - he gave me a ride."

"Hmm. He any good with floor routines? Natalie's could use some work."

"God no. He's pure modern technique - he'd couldn't translate into floor work if his job depended on it. I'll work with her later in the week - if we tighten up her second tumbling pass there'll be room for something a bit more lyrical."

"Mm, so glad I found myself with somebody who speaks dance and gymnastics. Teaching your ballerina friends to flip around all morning and then elites in the afternoon - which world do you really exist in, Payson?

"We're not _ballerinas_, thank you, we are a highly respected modern company." She snuck her hand into his, leaning in slightly to tip her head onto his shoulder, taking advantage of the height she had gained between her eighteenth and twentieth birthdays. "Sasha, I think we're making our own world. Don't you?"


End file.
